An Indirect Conversation
By the fall of 1981, despite CBS Records' best efforts to keep the Jackson family's domestic turmoil a secret, most industry insiders were aware of what had happened between Katherine and Gina because of the public filings of the lawsuit litigation. Michael had made it clear that he did not want to have to face any reporters, because he was afraid that he might be asked to comment on the matter. However, the press grind to promote
Triumph
would continue, Michael's wishes notwithstanding.
Michael Jackson, who had just turned twenty-three, was a contradictory figure. He was decisive and determined, as he had proved a few times along the way, but he was also vulnerable and confused. Though he was beginning to seize control of his career, he was still reluctant to sever ties with his family. ‘I'd die if I were alone,’ he told me in a telephone interview on his birthday. He was unable to leave the womb, to move out of the house. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘I could never leave here.’
Instead of growing up, Michael actually seemed to be regressing – buying toys, playing childlike games and, for the first time, actually surrounding himself with children. Young fans who gathered at the gates of the estate to catch a glimpse of a Jackson coming or going were now being invited to spend time in the inner-sanctum with Michael. It was odd behaviour. Jackie now called him a ‘Man-Child’, explaining, ‘He's a man, but still a kid, a wonderful combination.’ When asked about the possibility of having his own children, Michael shook his head, no. He'd like to raise a child, he said, but it would be one whom he would adopt, ‘in the far future’. He would not procreate, he said. ‘I don't have to bring my own into the world,’ he said uneasily. ‘It's not necessary for me to do that.’
He continued, ‘One of my favourite pastimes is being with children – talking to them, playing with them in the grass. They're one of the main reasons I do what I do. They know everything that people are trying to find out, they know so many secrets, but it's hard for them to get it out. I can recognize that and learn from it. They say things that astound you. They go through a brilliant, genius stage. But then, when they become a certain age…’ Michael paused. ‘When they get to a certain age, they lose it.’
I was scheduled to interview this extraordinary ‘Man-Child’ on 3 October 1981, an encounter that was arranged by a publicist at Epic. In advance, I was warned not to mention Gina Sprague or ask questions about ‘the incident’ or the state of Michael's parents' marriage.
I was at my desk compiling a list of questions when the telephone rang. It was Michael. He got to the point, quickly. ‘There's a certain wayI want to do this interview,’ he told me.
‘Sure thing, Michael. Whatever you like.’
‘Well,’ he began slowly. ‘I'd like for Janet to help.’
‘Help?’
‘Yes. See, Janet is going to sit in on our interview,’ he told me. ‘You'll ask
her
the questions, and then
she'll
ask
me.
Then, see, I'll give
her
the answers, and then she'll give them to
you.
How does that sound?’
‘It sounds strange, Michael. I don't even think I understand it. Could you explain that to me, again?’
He repeated the scenario and said that it was the only way he would consent to the interview. ‘So, I hope you understand,’ he said, briskly. ‘Okay, bye.’
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘I don't get it, Michael. You're giving me an interview, but you're not talking to me? What kind of madness is that?’
‘It might seem like madness to you,’ he said. ‘But there are reasons for the things I do. You just have to try to understand. If you're willing to do it my way, I'll see you tomorrow. Okay? Bye, now.’
I wondered if I could conduct an interview in that manner. Did it make any sense? Of course, I had to try. How could I turn down the opportunity to engage in, no doubt, the strangest interview I'd ever had with Michael, or with anyone else, for that matter.
The next day, I arrived at the Encino home in time for the interview. ‘Sure glad you could make it,’ Michael said as we shook hands. He was wearing a black T-shirt and matching jeans. His feet were bare. I noticed that his nose was thinner and more defined than it had been the last timeI saw him, which was about six months earlier backstage at a Patti Labelle concert in Hollywood. His falsetto whisper of a voice seemed even softer than it had been at that time.
After Michael and I exchanged pleasantries in the living room, Janet, age fifteen, walked in wearing a red leather miniskirt, black boots, and a plaid sweater. She did not greet me. Rather, she sat at Michael's side in a robotic fashion, not even acknowledging his presence.
Michael introduced me to her, as if we had never met. (Of course, we had.) We shook hands, but she never made eye contact with me. I sat opposite them.
‘Now, you'll do the interview the way you promised, won't you?’ he asked.
When I said that I hadn't ‘promised’ anything, he rose from his chair. ‘Well, then, we can't do the interview,’ he said, his words clipped.
‘Wait,’ I told him, motioning for him to be seated. ‘Let's try it. Let's start with the new album,
Triumph.
How do you feel about it?’
Michael pinned me with his dark eyes and nodded toward his sister. I redirected my question. ‘Janet, would you please ask him how he feels about the album.’
Janet turned to Michael. ‘He wants to know how you feel about the album,’ she said.
‘Tell him I'm very happy with it,’ Michael said, his tone relaxed. ‘Working with my brothers again was an incredible experience for me. It was,’ he stopped, searching for the word, ‘magical,’ he concluded.
Janet nodded her head and turned to me. ‘He told me to tell you that he's very happy with the album,’ she repeated. ‘And that working with his brothers was an incredible experience for him.’
There was a pause.
‘You forgot the part about it being magical,’ Michael said to her, seeming peeved at her for not doing her job properly.
‘Oh, yes.’ Janet looked at me with apologetic, brown eyes. ‘He said it was magical.’
‘Magical?’ I asked.
‘Yes.
Magical.
’
As I tried to think of another question for Janet to ask him, I scrutinized Michael carefully for the first time that day. It suddenly struck me that he was wearing makeup; his brows and lashes were darkened with mascara, his eyelids coated with soft pink shadow. Rouge emphasized his cheekbones and… was that lipstick? Yes, I decided, scarlet lipstick. Today, the notion of Michael Jackson wearing makeup in day-to-day living (as opposed to onstage or on camera, where practically all men in show business wear it) is certainly not novel. Back in 1981, though, it would never have occurred to anyone that Michael would wear makeup in his home for an interview. It was applied subtly and with great care. He looked exotic.
The ‘interview’ went on for about thirty more awkward minutes. Occasionally, Janet would inject a comment of her own, in an effort, it seemed to me, to keep the conversation alive. ‘Michael, remember when that girl got upset because she had heard you had a sex change?’ she said to him. ‘Do you remember what happened to her? She got so upset, she jumped right out a window. I think she died,’ Janet said. ‘Poor thing.’
Michael looked into space, blankly.
FinallyI decided that I'd had enough of the odd exchange and said I'd rather not continue with the interview. ‘But why not?’ Michael wanted to know. ‘Wait. Janet will tell you what happened when I visited Katharine Hepburn last month,’ he offered. ‘It's a good story.’
‘I'd rather
you
tell me, Michael,’ I pressed.
‘Well, I can't…’
There was a small silence between us.
‘Then, look, just forget it,’ I said. ‘Let's just forget the whole thing. Michael.’
‘Okay, cool,’ he said. Smiling somewhat ruefully, he rose. ‘Nice to see you again,’ he remarked, not connecting with my frustration. ‘Let's do this again, sometime.’ Then, he left the room. Janet threw me a look and extended her hands at me, palms up, as if to exclaim, Now, look what you've done.
Once alone in the Jacksons' living room, I tried to figure out what had just occurred. As I was putting my tape recorder and notes in my brief case, Katherine walked in. She looked disheartened. ‘Did you just interview Michael,’ she asked. ‘Please be nice to him. The press is so mean these days.’ She shook her head, at a loss. ‘I don't know what to tell you,’ she said. She slumped into the chair opposite me, practically speechless with fatigue. It was disconcerting. In the past, she always had such dignity and poise.
‘I'm worried about him,’ she said, finally looking at me. Her eyes were full of warmth and concern. ‘There's so much pressure, things are so… difficult.’ When she realized she was, perhaps, saying too much, she stopped herself. ‘Would you let yourself out?’ she asked me, abruptly.
I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as I walked out the front door. What is going on in this household? I wondered. While walking down the driveway, I looked up at the mansion and saw a face peering out from one of the upstairs windows. It was Michael. When he realized that I had spotted him, he ducked out of sight.
The next morning, I received a telephone call from Joseph. Just beforeI had pulled out of the Jackson estate's gates, I had seen him in the driveway. I stopped to tell him what had happened. His cocoa-coloured, weather-beaten face broke into a wide grin. He shrugged his shoulders, ‘Well, that's my boy,’ he said. Now, on the telephone, he could not have been more apologetic. ‘I'm sorry about that, man,’ he told me. ‘I was thinking about it, and I wanted to explain.’
According to Joseph, Michael had told his record company that he no longer sought direct contact with the media for fear of questions about ‘that girl, you know, the one we got that problem with.’ I knew he was referring to Gina Sprague. ‘Plus some other stuff that's going on,’ Joseph continued. ‘But when he said he didn't want to do no interviews, the label [Epic executives] forced him to. Me, too. I told him he needs to talk to you and the other guys in the press. It's the right thing to do,’ Joseph said. ‘So, what can I say? He did it his way. Sorry. Guess he wanted some control in his life, huh?’
‘Guess so, Mr Jackson,’ I said. We spoke for about fifteen minutes. He seemed fine, as if nothing unusual was going on in his life. ‘Come on by sometime and do a story on LaToya,’ he told me. ‘We got some plans for her. Just wait till you see what we're going to do. Girl's gonna be a big star. Huge, I'm tellin' ya.
Huge
.’
When I hung up, I thought about Joseph's explanation. Michael's tactic might have been ludicrous, I thought, but it's true that desperate people take desperate measures to make a point… especially when nobody will listen. I felt a grudging admiration for the way Michael had gotten what he wanted. He had manipulated the situation in order to make a mockery of the promised interview. I never wrote about the episode. Instead, I cancelled the feature. Michael got what he wanted: no story.